


running with scissors, playing with knives

by ivalander



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Knife Play, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Unrequited Lust, a lil breath play if you squint, implied background dnf, no beta we die like bonk chat, sapnap is a lil stupid but we love him, the knife play is mostly just temperature and sensation play (so no blood or cuts etc)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:00:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29787504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivalander/pseuds/ivalander
Summary: Sapnap buys a knife. Things get a little out of hand.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51





	running with scissors, playing with knives

**Author's Note:**

> sapnap talking about knives on stream is something that is very personal to me. i heard him say he bought a knife and RAN to google docs (not with scissors because thats dangerous)
> 
> shoutout to bonk chat for the encouragement and ideas. ily.

The knife had been brought into Sapnap’s life in a fit of fury.

He received a lot of packages, so he opened a lot of packages, and he liked the packages. But he _didn’t_ like having constantly sore and chafing fingers from being forced to physically rip the cardboard open, because Dream insisted the shitty fucking kitchen scissors he had brought to the house worked “well enough”. 

They did not, arguably. 

Fuming, Sapnap placed an order, a pocket knife arrived, and the result of _finally_ smoothly cutting into tape was _euphoric_. He relished in his success for a moment, before tossing the knife to the side on his desk, the tool soon forgotten in favour for the far more interesting contents of cardboard boxes. 

Peace was restored. 

Momentarily.  
___

The knife is still on his desk when he, days later, caves and admits defeat after an embarrassing amount of brutal losses at chess to a teamed up Dream and George. Shutting off his monitor, Sapnap clenches his jaw, annoyed with himself for his reckless plays in the final games. 

_“They practice their plays together constantly, there was no chance in hell for me to even compete,”_ he thinks, fingers tapping roughly against his desk. He ignores the pull in his stomach at the unintended double-meaning of his words.

He sighs and lets his eyes flick around the room. Through the wall he can hear Dream’s muffled laughter, probably in the midst of migrating to a sleep call with George. He relaxes into a weak smile at the sound, leaning into his chair, as his eyes fall onto the slightly bent shape of the discarded knife resting on his desk. 

Picking it up, he tests out its weight, flipping it between his fingers. He traces the pattern of the wooden handle slowly, examining the soft intricate details, his fingertip barely registering the touch. Eyes moving along its shape, the design of the handle stands in stark contrast to the striking sharpness of the cutting edge of the blade. 

He momentarily relaxes his fingers, adjusting, and then grips the handle properly, grasp steady, enclosing the polished wood into his fist. The wood warms up slightly in his hands, but the blade remains resistant and _cold_ and the sight of it makes something stir low in his stomach. The subtle touch of warmth seems to pool from his grip, swirling mindlessly around his body with no sense of direction. His thoughts become soft around the edges with unintelligible phrases, fragments of distant emotions he can’t grasp just yet. 

Tentatively, with the lightest touch, he lifts the knife and scrapes the blade slowly with its broad side along the almost translucent skin of the back of his hand. The movement makes him let out a shuddering breath and he stops dead in his tracks. There’s something about the cool edge against his soft, warm skin that’s increasing the heat seeping from his grip, settling into a simmering warmth in his core. It feels like a quiet threat. It feels like an alluring promise.

The blade stays cold against his skin as he moves it up his arm, breath stuck in his throat at the sight of goosebumps prickling where the metal touches him. He feels himself twitch slightly in his jeans and he allows his eyes to flutter shut for a split second, before he forcefully tries to push the swelling in his jeans to the back of his mind.

He fails. Miserably.

His thoughts are racing, spiraling into patterns of heat, supplying him with whispers of curious interest of how the knife would feel like against other parts of his body. How the touch of the knife would affect skin of less rough finish, with fewer atoms separating pressure from _breaking_. Would the touch of the metal turn dull, or would the sensation spike? Would the cold pressure remain rigid? Or would it melt into his warmth? 

He wonders how the touch of the blade would feel by the force of someone else's hands.

The thought makes him shiver, blade shaking slightly. His pulse is picking up, throbbing beneath the skin of his flushed neck. Sapnap traces a finger along the skin of his throat, pressing into the quiet thrumming. 

Suddenly, his racing thoughts gain direction. 

Breath heavy, he slowly starts to guide the blade to his throat. He angles his neck just a little, creating access, as if he’s about to be kissed. But while his memories of lips on skin are hazy, soft and warm, his breath hitches in his throat at the thought of impending pressure, sharp edges and cold. 

_”This is stupid,”_ he thinks, but his movements doesn’t cease and as soon as the knife brushes his throat, the building warmth in his core flares up, hot and white, and he can't help but let out an embarrassingly airy whine.

It’s not as a smooth of a touch as when scraping the freckled skin of his arm. There's a little rough stubble there creating friction, but the touch of the blade against his rapidly speeding pulse point makes him _squirm_ and suddenly he realises he's panting, the sound so loud it seems to have sucked all of the air out in the quiet room. 

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, hesitating. The movement pushes the knife harder against the tense muscles of his neck, making the heat in his stomach flare up.

He doesn’t have to look down to know that he's straining in his jeans, the slightest shift of the rough fabric making him squirm. Looking down also means that he would have to remove the knife from his throat, and while a quiet freak out is most likely due in a couple of hours, the thought of losing this sensation now, even for a moment, almost makes him cry. 

He pushes the wide edge of the knife with a little more force against the soft flesh of his neck. A pained _“fuck”_ escapes him, his cock twitching excruciatingly, _begging_ to be touched in some way, _any way_. He presses the heel of his hand into the tenting bulge and a groan is punched out of him, head flashing with images of stronger hands holding the knife for him.

He allows himself to catch his breath for a second, chest rising and falling rapidly. 

Biting his lip to try to hold back the whimpers that threaten to escape, he forces himself to be quiet, as he slips his hand beneath his waistband. His mouth falls open when his rough fingers make contact with his cock, even the ghost of a touch almost too much. He’s never been this hard in his _life_ and he’s barely touched himself, already almost at the brink of spilling over his fingers at just a promise of friction. 

He curls his fingers around his now throbbing dick, just like his fingers are curled around the handle of the knife currently pressed to his throat. The comparison makes him thrust into his hand, hips stuttering. 

The movement makes his fingers around the knife lessen their grip a bit, but he keeps the blade pushed to his throat while small whimpers start to fall from his lips in time with his strokes. His vision is clouded with echoes of stolen glances, memories of tense muscles, dexterous fingers and soft blonde hair meant to be _pulled_. 

The images make his head spin for a moment, before he forces them away. He presses the metal down harder, almost as a punishment, cutting his breath short.

Any thought of restraint is soon gone as he lets his eyes fall shut and loses himself to the erratic movements of his left hand around his cock, his right hand pressing steadily against his throat. He’s already so close to the edge, so far gone, but he doesn’t want to come, doesn’t want this to end just yet. 

He whimpers into his fist, his hand a blur inside his jeans, the vibrations from the sound low in his throat almost making the blade shiver against his skin. He presses the blade down harder and then _harder_ , testing its limits, letting his breath fall short. He wonders if it will leave bruises. 

At the thought of dark purple marks littering the fair skin of his neck from _this_ , he groans and wills his hand to still, the image bringing him dangerously close to the edge. He curves his hand up to the tip to spread the precum leaking there, slowly starting to stroke himself again as he pants heavily, mouth open. 

The thought of blossoming bruises won’t leave his mind, though. 

He thinks about desperately trying to cover them up later, hiding in the swirls of soft oversized clothes to conceal the delicate necklace of purples, blues, and greens. He imagines someone catching a glimpse of the bruises, gently pushing the fabric aside to trace their fingers along the discoloured skin. The person’s eyes lock with his, suddenly so dark and so _blown_ , but still holding onto a familiar hint of green. 

_Dream. Fuck._ Sapnap should be embarrassed about the possibility of Dream hearing him like this, _finding him like this_ , but it just makes him push harder into his fist with a choked off groan. 

He tries to keep it down, he really does, but it comes out _excruciatingly_ loud anyway. Probably too loud for Dream not to be able to overhear, only separated by a few walls and empty spaces. 

Sapnap groans. 

He can’t help it, the thought of Dream finding him with the knife pressed against his throat and his hand pumping his cock in his boxers, the soft material somehow bruising to his knuckles, being too far gone to even think about removing any clothing, sends a burst of seething electricity through his body. 

The warmth in his stomach is now all but a raging fire, spreading, igniting all the cells in his body with the sensation, longing for _more_. 

_He imagines a door opening, Dream’s tall build frozen, dark gaze fixating on the rapid rising and falling of Sapnaps chest, his stuttering hips and the edge of the blade reflecting the soft light from the door left ajar._

_Sapnap opens his mouth to stumble out an apology, but something in Dream’s eyes makes his words get stuck in his throat._

_Dream licks his lips and carefully closes the distance to where Sapnap is panting in his chair. He leans over him and slowly examines the blade, the sharp edge dangerously close to the skin of Sapnap's neck. He traces a finger tentatively along its shape, metal pushing ever so slightly back against his fingers when it rises with Sapnap’s heavy inhales._

_Dream stops, seemingly contemplating something, and then carefully pushes the blade harder against the warm skin, locking eyes with Sapnap. Sapnap, overwhelmed by the added pressure and Dream’s proximity, moans._

_Dream growls and promptly removes his hand, falling to his knees beside Sapnap._

_Suddenly, his hands are gripping Sapnap’s thighs, all long fingers, slender veins and softly bruised knuckles. Big hands, splayed all over the tense muscles under the rough fabric of Sapnap’s jeans._

_Dream’s fingers reach Sapnap’s hips, grabbing the waistband and pulling it down slightly, revealing more flushed skin and a slightly jutting hip bone. Dream revels in the hint of coarse hair littering the width of pale and pink, a trail of pitch black disappearing under the rest of the fabric of the jeans._

_Dream traces the exposed hip bone with his fingertips, touch so airy it becomes ruthless, and Sapnap groans low in his throat. Dream fails to bite back a moan at the sound, suddenly removing a hand to adjust himself quietly. He lets out a shaky breath at the touch, biting his lip to stifle it._

_They make eye contact, Dream slightly raising his eyebrow in a silent question, movements momentarily stilled. Sapnap nods, eyes so blown they’re almost completely dark, gaze reduced to a silent “please”._

_Dream doesn’t waste a second, his hand grabbing Sapnap’s thighs again, rougher this time, pulling on fabric, removing, ripping, until he can see everything, can reach everything, can touch everything. The cold air of the room hits Sapnap’s now exposed cock, the sharp sensation contrasting against the flushed and sensitive skin. He gasps._

_Dream spreads Sapnap’s legs, slipping into the space in between them. He leans in and lets his lips drag along the soft skin of Sapnap’s inner thigh, pressing hot kisses as he slowly travels up and down, carefully avoiding where Sapnap wants him the most._

_Sapnap whines impatiently, thrusting feebly into the loose grip he still keeps on his leaking cock. Dream answers with sucking bruises onto the skin of his thighs, marks of dark purple soon challenging the dominance of flushed pink._

_Sapnap is shaking, his grip on the knife wavering._

_Dream looks up. ”Keep the knife pressed tight,” he commands. Sapnap immediately obliges, and Dream rewards him by sucking a particularly bruising mark onto his thigh. “Good boy.”_

_Dream acts tough, but the increasing rasp and slight tremor in his voice gives him away. He’s just as affected as Sapnap. He wants this. Wants_ him. 

_Dream drags his hands up Sapnap’s thighs and presses his hips down, fingers digging into the soft flesh around his groin, skin pressing into the seat of the chair._

_“D-dream,” Sapnap whimpers as his eyes flutter shut, the added visual stimulation of Dream on his knees for him almost too much._

_As if Dream could hear his thoughts, he presses a last kiss onto his thigh and rises from the floor. Sapnap catches sight of his covered cock, tenting almost obscenely in grey sweatpants. His mouth goes dry at the sight of just how affected Dream is by this, just by the sight of Sapnap, hard and wanting and with the solid blade of the knife pressed into warm skin._

_Dream leans over him, encompassing Sapnap’s entire space with his body. He returns to slowly stroke the dull edge of the blade with his fingertip, tracing its length._

_The metal is somehow still cold to the touch, even though Dream can practically feel the heat radiating off Sapnap’s flushed neck. Dream can see the slight rise of Sapnap’s pulse beating under his skin, and it makes Dream lightheaded, voice dropping low as he groans, eyes snapping up to Sapnap’s face._

_Sapnap meets his eyes, mouth open, cheeks burning and lips bitten raw._

_Something in Dream snaps._

_He kisses him, with filthy intensity and little coordination, just desperately trying to take control. Sapnap whines into the pressure of Dream’s lips against his, kiss becoming sloppy, wet,_ desperate.

_Dream trails his lips away to press hot kisses onto Sapnap’s jaw, bruised lips against rough stubble. He twists his hand into dark hair and tugs, pulling Sapnaps head back, exposing more of his neck._

_Sapnap’s grip on his cock becomes weak and he groans sharply, completely submitting himself to Dream’s movements. Dream pushes Sapnap’s hand away and promptly takes his cock into his own hand. He swears sharply at how heavy Sapnap's cock feels in his grip as he starts to stroke him, swiping his thumb into the wet slit every so often._

_“F-fuck, Dream,” Sapnap moans, thrusting into Dream's hand. Dream reels in the power, speeding up his movements._

_Soon, the sounds escaping Sapnap are reduced to only small chants of “uh, uh, uhs”, unintelligible swearwords and broken cries of Dream’s name. He is high on the feeling of hands other than his on the most yearning part of him, high on of being wanted, of having what he thought he couldn’t._

_“You like this.” Dream states, face close again and marking the skin on Sapnap’s neck next to the metal with dark bruises. “Playing with fire. Me at your mercy.”_

_Their bodies are pressed so close Sapnap feels the slight tremor of Dream starting to stroke himself roughly with his other hand, breathing hot puffs onto Sapnap's neck from speaking filth. His damp breath accentuates the piercing cold of the metal against Sapnap’s skin, burning._

_“You’re mine. Does knowing that get you off, baby?” Dream purrs into his ear._

_“Yeah,”_ Sapnap breathes, out loud, _too loud_ , suddenly acutely aware of the silence of the room he’s actually in, fantasy fading, shrinking into only the feeling of the rough strokes over his cock. He really should be quiet, real Dream is _so close_ , but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t want to care, hand speeding up to an almost painful pace over his twitching cock. 

The thoughts of Dream had broken the last restraint of his badly kept control. Choked off groans and suppressed whimpers fill the room, intermingling with the slick sounds of him thrusting into his fist, chasing his release. 

Continuing the roughness of his strokes, Sapnap eases his pressure on the knife to let the blade slowly run down his throat, slightly scraping but mostly just pressing. The pressure is enough to feel good, _so fucking good_ , but not enough to actually break the skin. 

He wishes it would bruise him, though. 

Wishes Dream would bruise him for real, mark him up and claim him as _his_. He imagines it’s Dream’s hands pushing the knife against his beating pulse point. That he’s leaning into his ear, breath hot and scraping his teeth lightly against the skin going up, whispering _“Come. Come for me.”_. 

And Sapnap does. He comes with a drawn out groan, shuddering as cum spurts from his cock, coating his fingers, soiling fabric. The fire in his veins explodes, seams tightly strung bursting as waves of white hot heat wash over him. He strokes himself through it, breath stuck in his throat, shuddering through the aftershocks, knife never leaving his throat.  
___

When Dream later that week teases him for being paranoid enough to keep a knife on his bedside table, Sapnap just huffs and rolls his eyes. 

He tries to diffuse the topic with asking if George might be awake yet. It works _(and of course it does)_ , Dream lights up at the mention of his name, rattling on about a new game they played late last night. 

He can see Dream's mouth forming words, pink lips and strong hands moving animatedly, dimples on display, but Sapnap doesn’t register a single syllable. 

His mind suddenly only contains glimpses of sharp edges, cold pressed against warm, horizontal bruises on his neck, as he tries to fight off the heat starting to stain his cheeks, threatening to tell the secret of just _what_ he had used the knife for earlier. 

And who, in his weakest moments, he had thought of with the blade firmly pressed against his throat. 

There’s many things he can’t have. 

At least he can have this.

**Author's Note:**

> dont do knife play without doing your research before, esp if doing it with a partner
> 
> do not send this to or share in any way with the cc:s, that includes reposting this anywhere. if anyone mentioned in this fic changes their mind about their boundaries, it will get taken down immediately. 
> 
> peace


End file.
